


A Slight Cough

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [3]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Bad Ending, Gen, Gore, Snufkin is very unlucky, moominmamma is competent af, various things get into various bodyparts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14199837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: The smallest things can cause the biggest problems.





	A Slight Cough

Snufkin took a moment to lick his lips. He’d been playing for what felt like ages, and his mouth and lungs were aching, but the purple plants with their blank staring eyes loved his music; if they were entranced with that they weren’t trying to eat the others. Oh, what strange situations Moomin and his family got into.

He sucked in a breath to continue the song and caught something just wrong in his throat, a little hair or bit of dust. Snufkin began to cough. It was one of those building, constant coughs that only got worse the more you did it, and it was all but impossible to stop. He heard Moomin cry out his name, but couldn’t stop coughing enough to respond or bring the harmonica back to his mouth.

Snufkin had to get out of there. Most of the plants were already in the cellar with him, and if any weren’t they could just pick them apart or burn them or something. They were _plants_ , after all, not monsters.

He turned toward the stairs and tripped over writhing, purple bodies. The harmonica clattered away, and Snufkin tasted blood in his mouth. He pushed himself to his knees and rubbed his stinging mouth. At least he wasn’t coughing anymore

“My harmonica,” Snufkin muttered, searching for it in the gloom, feeling around the plants as they lingered in their music-induced haze. They were like a small forest of new growth like this, standing taller than him on his knees, swaying and thin.

“Snufkin, oh hurry Snufkin!” Moomin called down the cellar door. There was still a sea of plants between them to wade through. Snufkin stood up and slipped his harmonica into his pocket. He had just enough time to get to the door and out, he was sure.

“I’m coming, Moomi-- ah!” Snufkin’s assurances gave way to a cry as pain shot up his calf. He stumbled. Another bite raced along his arm, and one of the plants pulled back, what Snufkin had taken for eyes flecked with blood. His arm gave out and he hit the cellar floor again. He couldn’t move his arm or his leg. A plant bent down and pressed itself against his cheek like it was giving him a kiss. Snufkin flinched away before it could bite.

There was a commotion at the door.  “Stay out!” he yelled and hoped they were keeping Moomin from rushing down. There should only be one foolish person in trouble. The plants were moving back to the doorway, sensing more food, their movements aggressive now that they’d tasted blood. “Shut the door!”

Moominpappa and Mr. Hemulen dragged Moomin away from the door as Little My slammed it closed on thin, purple tendrils. Mr. Hemulen broke away to shove furniture in front of the door as Moomin writhed and kicked and screamed for Snufkin.

“Snufkin! _Snufkin!_ Pappa, we have to get him -- the trap door --”

A shriek cut Moomin off and everyone froze, eyes locked onto the cellar door.

* * *

 Snufkin had tried so hard _not_ to scream, knowing Moomin was just outside the door and likely very, very worried. But the plants had crowded around and began nibbling and probing at his clothes, then his skin, leaving more bite marks and pain and numbness in their wake. It had been easier to stay quiet then, when that was all they were doing and he could pry them away and throw them across the cellar, but soon he succumbed to the paralysis and lay sprawled on the ground, lips pressed into a tight line against a plant that had been probing curiously at his mouth, attracted to the blood drying on his lips. He nipped angrily at it, and it pulled back like a startled animal, more aware than he’d have guessed.

He bit down a cry when he felt those thin little vines between his thighs, a plant exploring up under his coat. Snufkin tried to dislodge it as best he could as it searched across his belly, leaving little bites trailing down before slithering under his frayed pants, having found what it was looking for.

Snufkin gasped as its tendrils prodded and pushed, then it began to wriggle inside. His gasp quickly turned into the shriek Moomin heard as the plant’s swelling body pushed deeper, stretching him and leaving burning bites all inside. It _hurt._

He clawed weakly at the dirt floor, choking on air. The plant wasn’t stopping, he wasn’t that big it couldn’t go -- it shouldn’t be able to go so deep. Fire burned up Snufkin’s belly, the muscles of his back were cramping and knotted, body futilely fighting the invasion digging into it. More plants were congregating at his groin, drawn in by whatever strange communication they used promising a warm, dark, cozy feast, the blood in the air starting a frenzy.

Poor Moomin, he thought vaguely through the deafening pain. He shouldn’t have to hear this.

* * *

Moomin had never heard Snufkin scream before. He’d never heard _anyone_ scream like that before. It chilled him to the bone and set his tail afluff. Moominpappa assured him they’d get to him, somehow, and wanted Moomin to go to his room but he couldn’t leave knowing that Snufkin was just beneath the floorboards having who knew what being done to him.

Whatever it was wasn’t quick. A few more thin wails rose up from between the floorboards, and Moomin stared at the trap door leading into the cellar, shivering and crying as Moominmamma wrapped her arms around him. The last scream was cut off abruptly, unnaturally.

Moominpappa opened the trap door and lowered a lantern, scoping out the cellar. The plants were distracted, congregating around a crumpled, heaving green figure -- he swallowed as he smelled blood tinting the air. They hadn’t seemed that dangerous before, but once the plants had begun to feed, it hadn’t taken long for them to reveal their true colors.  Before, they'd not wanted to hurt the plants, but now it was one of their own being hurt.

“Someone start making torches,” he instructed, trying not to be sick at the wet, gasping noises he could hear. “Mr. Hemulen, arm yourself. He’s farther into the cellar. We’re going to have to go down and get him.”

They crept down the ladder, torches held out defensively, several unlit ones tucked up under their arms just in case. Moominpappa swatted away one of the plants, watched as its tendrils shriveled and burned. The stink that rose up was eye-watering and thick, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. There was a dozen more to scatter away.

He had to grab the Hemulen once they saw the condition Snufkin was in, and force him to stay and hack away at the plants pressed to bloody gaps in his coat. There was one that had gotten into Snufkin’s mouth, and another was pressed to a bloody mess on his eye. Moominpappa grabbed them both and yanked them away with a nauseating squelch. Another was wriggling into his ear, body flexing like a suction. Moominpappa winced as he ripped it away and blood spurted onto the ground. He wanted to take the hatchet Mr. Hemulen had found and just hack them to pieces then and there, but Snufkin had to be moved to somewhere safer.

Lighting and throwing down torches, Moominpappa cleared a path for them to get the small, bloody tramp back to the trap door. Snufkin was dead weight, aware, but entirely unresponsive. Several plants clung with determination to him, but they weren’t holding him back so they would just have to stay until he was laid out up top.

With the help of Snorkmaiden and Moominmamma, they managed to get him through the hole and lay him on blankets and pillows Moomin had rushed off to grab. Blood and spit dripped down his face, and his chest was heaving.

While Moomin held Snufkin’s head and cried, stroking his face and getting bright red blood all over his white fur, Moominmamma pulled out her scissors and snipped up Snufkin’s coat, peeling it back to reveal more plants latched onto his thin, pale chest. Their heads were burrowed up under his skin, blood welling around the wounds, those nasty tendrils tearing the holes bigger so they could fit in more snugly.

Nobody there had any experience with this, but they tried as carefully and quickly as they could to cut and burn and pull out the invasive plants. Snufkin started sobbing again, words wet and incoherent, spiking upward into screams at every yank and slice. His pain made it all the worse, seeing someone usually reserved and calm so undone. Even Little My was sickened, though she refused to leave without helping.

When it seemed they’d pulled all the plants from his legs and torso, Moominpappa sat back and wiped his bloody hand across his brow. Moominmamma watched Snufkin’s face carefully. It was scrunched and white with pain, and he twitched on occasion like something was still hurting him. She let her gaze wander down the bloodstained landscape of his body.

“Could you take Moomintroll and the others out?” she asked Moominpappa, eyes on the dark red stain at the crux of Snufkin’s trousers.

“But why?”

“Please, Moominpappa. I need to take care of Snufkin.”

“Of course, come along, Moomintroll.” He got heavily to his feet and put a hand on Moomin’s arm.

“No, Pappa, I want to help. Mamma, can’t I do anything to help?” Moomin pleaded, looking at her with his teary eyes. He felt so useless, unlike the rest, and this was _his_ best friend in pain. Moominmamma didn’t have the time to argue, and she might need an extra pair of hands. Of anyone, Moomintroll would be one of the only ones Snufkin would trust, if the poor dear was even able to grasp the situation anymore.

“The others, then. We don’t have time.”

Moominpappa ushered everyone else out of the kitchen and closed the door behind him, leaving the three alone.

Moominmamma took her scissors once more and began to cut down the edges of Snufkin’s pants. As a mother and liver of a very storied life, there wasn’t a lot that could truly disgust her. She just hoped Moomin could keep his calm.

“What-- what are you doing, Mamma?” Moomin asked, a blush rising on his cheeks as she peeled away the bloodied pants.

“They seem to like easy openings,” Moominmamma explained calmly, as panic would accomplish nothing now. She pressed gently against Snufkin’s lower belly, and could feel strange undulations. “I’m afraid there are more inside. Hold him by the shoulders and put this in his mouth.” Moominmamma handed Moomin a knotted kitchen towel.

Once she was sure Moomin had a secure grip, Moominmamma settled between Snufkin’s legs and gently spread his thighs. A few of the plants’ orange root-feet dripped out of him, slicked with red and wriggly. She pressed her fingers in past them, unafraid as they were already feeding, and felt how deep they were. Farther than she could go.

Moominmamma pulled matches and a candle out of her purse and retrieved some metal tongs from her kitchen wares. They had responded to the torches, she hoped they’d respond as well to a bit of heated metal.

Snufkin arched his back and shrieked into the towel as she pulled the first one out. It had meat still attached to its mouth, and was flailing like a live wire, splattering gore everywhere. Moominmamma tossed it away to be dealt with later. The smell of scorched flesh and burnt blood was thick. Moomintroll, she was proud to see, only grit his teeth and focused on soothing Snufkin through the procedure.

Her hand stroked up his bruised belly, helping her locate the ones worryingly deep inside. She pulled out another, and another, thick and gorged on Snufkin’s innards. They stood nearly as tall as him, normally, but had curled up like young ferns to make room for more. If they’d gotten him out of there a few minutes later...It was a wonder that Snufkin hadn’t died from the trauma, but Moominmamma wasn’t going to question a miracle.

Soon, Snufkin was still -- not dead, and not unconscious, but quiet, both inside and outside. Moomin returned to caressing his face, his shoulders, his chest, and talking quietly to Snufkin, while Moominmamma did what she could to patch him up.

“Is he going to be okay, Mamma?” Moomin asked, voice rough with tears.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, my dear little troll. We’ll wash him up and let him rest. Go ask your father to fetch one of my nightgowns.”

* * *

 Snufkin was, of course, placed in Moomin’s room to heal, and Moomin watched over him like a mother hen for days and days. Snufkin had lost his eye and most likely his hearing in one ear, but he would live. Everything else was unknown until he returned to himself, but silently everyone feared the worst. When he was awake, he just stared at the wall or the ceiling, and nobody knew why.

Moominpappa supervised the mass burning of the plants, all unassuming looking but for the grisly few. It was strange and terrible and terrifying that something so small could land such a big blow to the entire valley. But the jungle died away, the animals returned to their zoo, and Moominvalley was left alone once more.

Fillyjonks and Mymbles and Hemulens all stopped by to visit Snufkin, to give him things they thought he’d enjoy (often things that they themselves enjoyed, because all the things a Snufkin enjoyed couldn’t be brought indoors), or play him a song they’ve learned on their own harmonica, or brush his hair and wash his limbs. When they left as they all had to do sooner or later, they would cast their eyes down and walk quickly over the bridge, past his tent, and try not to think of him anymore lest they cry all over again.

It was disconcerting, seeing Snufkin’s empty tent, his fishing pole fallen over and rainwater in the cooking pot. Moomin eventually developed the habit, when Snufkin was brought out to the porch to enjoy the day, to go out and tidy everything so when Snufkin was feeling better he could go right back to his tent and life in the valley could return to normal. He knew it would happen, someday. It had to. Snufkin always came back.

Soon autumn came, followed by winter, then a quiet, lonely spring.


End file.
